Interred
by TheColdMachine
Summary: A collection of interconnected stories. Various characters, all preOpera. Chapters are rated individually.
1. Gravehouse

I liked how 'Open Wounds' turned out, and I decided to work on a companion piece of sorts. I had two ideas, and they in turn inspired other ideas… So this will be a collection of anything I write that takes place not long after Marni's death, and will not be in chronological order whatsoever. It will not be a series, but the stories will intertwine at points.

Rating-wise, I'm erring on the side of caution, perhaps overly so. I may have tossed a few swears in here and there, and a bit of suggestive content. Some gore. The usual. Each part will be individually rated.

**& & &**

**I. GRAVE****HOUSE**

**RATING** T

"The greatest grief is that which we cause ourselves."

She's got two flowers gently clasped in a delicate hand. She holds them so the blossoms—long, narrow, and crimson—dance by her face, and she looks all the more pale for it. The dress is different, but it's just as black as the one she wore earlier (or maybe it was yesterday). Her hair is decorated with some sort of black webbing, and her arms are half-covered by netlike lace gloves. She's wearing black lipstick and nail polish too, but Nathan doesn't really look at her long enough to take in these small details. He sees Mag robed in black, and then he looks away.

The dirt draws his attention. With the dim lighting of the graveyard, it looks like asphalt. He's staring at it, but not quite noticing it. Other things on the mind.

There's a rustle of cloth behind him. Mag, with her flowers. Walks by him and leans the long stalk against the tomb door. One's for Marni. And the other?

Is for Shilo. Right.

Turning around gracefully, she only seems to notice him now, and stares at him wide-eyed for a long second. Not wide-eyed, he thinks, just her normal eyes. And not staring. She's looking over him. He can feel the mechanically-enhanced eyes roving his person. The old-fashioned suit, the dark tie, the deep gray shirt underneath. (Would have worn more black, but he couldn't find that shirt.) Then she's looking away and moving.

She stands about two feet away, lined up with the tomb like him.

That's how they stay for five, six, ten minutes. Quiet envelopes them. Breath that might be used for talking, it's being squeezed out of their chests by the silence. Maybe if he looks, he'll see Mag whispering small prayers for a minute, but he doesn't. He's stonestill, and she's not quite fidgeting, but she's shifting ever so slightly. Small, fluid movements. A singer, sure, but still a dancer. You can't keep an animal like that pinned down.

The script they're working off of, it says she talks first. It's the same script they've been using the past two (three?) weeks, but it's become habit and it's what they both think they need.

She talks first, because she doesn't blame him. She knows what to say, she doesn't poke where it hurts, she knows what not to say—

"How long have you been here?" (Usually knows what not to say.)

And she knows he won't answer. Can't let her know, or she'll worry.

"How long, Nathan?"

He maintains his right to silence, like a fucking criminal. So wrapped up in the little prison of his own mind he doesn't really see her move in front of him. She's all in black, like the dirt, and the lights are so low and Marni's—

"_She's...They're here?"_

_Her voice is weak, delicate. Patient. She's got a puzzle to put together._

_He has some of the pieces, but she can't know. His little secrets, for him only. Nasty little truths he has to keep hidden so she won't worry. She's asking if they're buried here._

_And the idea of Shilo and Marni under the slab of stone, behind the thick wooden door, it's a little funny._

_He humours her._

"_Yes."_

She's worried now, he can tell. Nathan still hasn't looked right at her, but his eyes have lifted. Hovering near her chest. Not looking _there_ (not here, at his wife's tomb), but looking at the locket. It's a little heart-shaped thing, and it's just beneath the hollow of her throat. He imagines Marni's in there; a third tomb for everybody's favourite lady.

"You haven't left," and she seems resigned to this answer, so he doesn't reply. Hell, maybe she even understands it. Marni had been hers, too.

Mag shakes her head ever so slightly. He's actually looking at her face now, so he notices it.

"I can't," she murmurs, almost to herself. Then, with more confidence, looking him in the eye, "I can't let you do this to yourself."

She pauses, and the eyes flicker faintly, running over old memories. Mag doesn't show any of them, though. Maybe she's just being selfish, but he's grateful.

The eyes stop flickering, and he notices that for a minute, there's something there that strikes him as genuinely human. He's not quite sure what it is. Maybe the faint tremble of unshed tears. Maybe the love reflected in the snow-blue orbs. Maybe he's imagining it. But she cares, and she won't let him take the easy way out.

She takes a step forward. Nathan almost steps back, maybe afraid to be so close, but he doesn't. One pale, partly-gloved hand brushes over his cheek. He's pretty sure he's not crying. No, he isn't crying, but something about the touch jolts him a little. And as soon as he notices it, her hand is back to her side and she's not quite so close as he thought she was.

"I'm not doing anything," he mutters after the silence lasts too long.

"Stubborn man." It's so soft, and the way she says it—he guesses he isn't supposed to hear it.

"Mag," he says, a little louder. He sounds tired, even if he doesn't feel it, and tries to muster up a little enthusiasm, a little sincerity. "Don't worry." It sounds like he's consoling her, now. Really, somebody should: she'd been trying to help him through his grief the past weeks, with little thought to her own. Unselfish, dear Mag.

There's the faint purr of a motor from somewhere outside, and he seizes the distraction to look away from the wide, mournful eyes. She doesn't look. Instead, she walks back to the tomb, placing one hand on the thickset door. Something low, under her breath, and she's walking back. He glances at her.

"Go home, Nathan."

She's staring him in the eye, and from the gravehouse gate, there's the sound of a door opening. Her car. He meets her gaze only briefly. Long enough to nod. This suits her well enough, and she glides past, a rustle of cloth and the grace of a dancer.

A few hours later, he weaves his way out of the graveyard and goes to the house. Shilo's up.

**& & &**

**& & &**


	2. Adverse Incisions

**II. ADVERSE INCISIONS**

aka '**Gaslighting**'

**RATING **M

"He will have his vengeance. Piece by bloody piece."

(This was originally titled 'Adverse Perversions', but I decided not to go in that direction. Again, I apologize to any RottixNathan fans.)

Rotti's too close, too smug, too loud when he says, "I bet you liked it." And then, with a tone that disgusts Nathan, "When you felt her pathetic life leak out between your fingers." He can almost imagine Rotti lick his lips as he says it, and he keeps his eyes closed just in case. The man moves away from his shoulder, and Nathan opens his eyes a little. He doesn't have his glasses, but he can make out some of the words on the transparency. Words like "obligated" and "confidential" and "necessary measures". Words that make him sick.

"No," he starts to protest. No to what Rotti's saying, no to the job.

"This job, Nathan," he still has that tone, "is perfect for you."

It's almost like a purr, and the air is thrumming with that relaxed energy. Surrounding him until it's suffocating. He can feel the chair slide a bit closer to the table as Rotti leans on it, whispering, "Killing things is what you do best."

"Shut up."

He laughs. Exaggerated, fake, and biting, and Nathan brings his hands to his head. He runs them over his face, and they're a bit damp. Sweat or tears, no matter. If he lets Rotti get to him—

"You've got the skill." Nathan drops one hand from his face, looks it over. Wrist still red from the handcuffs. And his gaze drifts across the desk, to the manacles left on the table. Rotti suddenly grabs his hand, too tight to be friendly, but he's smiling. "You know you can do it."

Rotti releases his hand, and Nathan grabs the edge of the desk, holding on. Rotti's still talking. Words. And he glances over the contract. He can't quite read the whole thing without his glances, but Rotti's filling in the blurs.

"A practice is out of the question… that Hippocratic oath bullshit," Rotti chuckles and shakes his head, walking around the desk. Then he's dead serious again. "Silly fucking rules made by stupid people. Ethics and sentimental sewage, Nathan. I'll fix that up soon." The last words, almost muttered to himself.

Under his breath, Nathan's murmuring, "Above all, do no harm." Nathan can't remember the rest, but the small phrase is all he needs to get Rotti to shut up. And it's dead quiet, then. Tomb silence and he remembers—Marni's there, under that sheet. He chokes a little, then, half-throttled sob that ruptures the silence.

Rotti makes a sound behind him. Disgusted and amused. Then he walks around the desk again. The smile, it belongs to the Cheshire cat, and then he disappears just like the feline. The smile remains in Nathan's head, chilling him, and he slumps forward onto the desk a little, a hand on either side of his head. Rotti reappears, then, and he's leaning on the chair again. Too close, over him. He takes one of Nathan's hands, almost gently, only Rotti isn't a gentle person, so it can't be that. Nathan doesn't look at him.

"Nathan." Rotti almost sounds empathetic, only he's not that kind of person. Is he? Nathan feels a faint pressure on his hand, a gentle squeeze only not. Not really.

A handcuff snaps around his wrist, too tight. That's what kind of person Rotti is.

And Nathan, right now he's only able to look up stupidly for a second before Rotti drags him out of the chair by his collar. For an older man, he's strong, and Nathan feebly uses his free hand to push at the vice grip on his neck. Rotti hits a pressure point, or damn close to one, and Nathan stumbles.

Blood slick on the floor makes him fall.

Click of handcuffs, and he doesn't have to look, shouldn't, but he does. Watches in mute horror as Rotti rips the bloody sheet away. A thin spray of blood hits the man in the face, and this time Nathan isn't imagining things as Rotti runs his tongue over his lips.

"It's not much of a career change," he's tossing the sheet into a corner, out of reach. "But I think you should discuss it with your wife." Rotti's bent over a little, so he can look Nathan in the eye. Nathan reaches up to the table, pulling himself up a little. Hardly thinking, he spits at Rotti. Hits him in the mouth, the eye. Fucker.

Rotti barely flinches, but before Nathan can blink his blurry eyes, Rotti's whacked him in the back of the head. That doesn't hurt, but it sends his forehead straight into the metal edge of the table. "Damnit!" Skin breaks somewhere above his eye, and his head suddenly feels like a hurricane.

Rotti, with that forced gentleness, tips Nathan's head up, a finger under his chin. Nathan can see double, and seeing the two Rottis makes him feel sick. The older man growls a little. Angry kitty. And then he laughs again, and it sounds like thunder. He straightens up, gently patting Nathan's cheek.

"You talk with your wife, Nathan."

**& & &**

"Marni?"

She's being so quiet. Listening. Patient. He's making her understand. And then he looks at her. For a second, she really looks beautiful. The cut in her stomach, it's perfect. No shaking hands here. For a second, he's proud of his work. Then he pushes himself away in disgust, only he nearly drags the whole table on top of him. The handcuff cuts deeper into his wrist.

And so he stops struggling, remains kneeling there, trying not to look at Marni.

"Rotti!"

He doesn't answer, and Nathan can't see him.

"Talk to me!" Not really sure who _he_'s talking to. Nobody answers, anyways.

"I'll do it," he murmurs. "I'll sign the damn contract." Nathan half-heartedly tugs his arm.

_You could cut your hand off_. Yes, he could. He could do that.

Do no harm.

_A bit late for that_. He grimaces, and steals a glance at Marni. She doesn't really look dead, if you don't see the blood. The eyes still shine a little. With his free hand, Nathan reaches out. His hand doesn't tremble, even as he gently traces her jawline with one finger. Without thinking, he presses two fingers into her throat.

_What are you looking for_?

And there's nothing but cold, dead flesh. Soft and pliable dead skin that makes his hand feel dirty.

**& & &**

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but at some point he wakes up. He's still in the same spot, still chained to—to Marni, apparently. Against her delicate wrist, the cuff looks like jewelry.

Her head's tilted a bit, and Nathan can see the empty eyes. They aren't shining any more. The air's leeched the moisture form them. Blood is caked along her cheeks, and her mouth. On his wrist, and on his forehead. On the floor, there's a pool of blood. Still sticky.

Leaning his head against the cool metal of the table, he bites back a wince. The gash is scabbing over, and it feels like there's a bruise there too. He pulls back from the table, starting a little as Marni's hand moves. It's just the handcuffs.

The eyes, dead dry eyes, are watching him do this.

"What?" he snaps. She's quiet, though. After a second, his eyes widen a little. Meeting the dead eyes, Nathan strokes the back of her hand. "I'm sorry, Marni."

**& & &**

_Talk to your wife, Nathan_.

_The perfect job…_ Logically, it was just that. High pay, your own schedule, no worry about lawsuits.

Ethically, morally—it was a fucking nightmare.

_And this isn't_?

Marni's eyes are closed now. (He's not sure when that happened.) If this is a nightmare, then they'll both wake up soon. He holds her hand a little tighter inside his. They'll both wake up. Soon.

_You wish_.

He brushes a finger over Marni's lips. "Shh."

**& & &**

What was it those Greeks were on about? The four humours?

Nathan's leaning against the table, one knee pulled up so he can lean his arm on it. Yes, the four humours. He chuckles softly. An imbalance in the humours made you sad or sick or annoying. They actually used to believe in those silly things. Tilting his head back, he closes his eyes and sifts through his memories.

Bile. Yellow meant choleric. Black was melancholy.

Phlegm meant phlegmatic.

And blood was for cheer. Nathan looks down at the floor. A great big puddle of cheer, that's all it is. Beside it, scattered on the floor, are scalpels and syringes and shattered vials with sharp glass shards. There's a knife too. A skinning knife that a chef might use. Or a butcher.

Nathan doesn't remember using it, doesn't remember it at all, but there's blood on the blade.

_Look Nathan_, it's telling him, _look at the blood_. _You sliced her up and ripped all the cheer out_.

After a moment: _Pity_. _I rather liked her_.

He lets his head half-loll to the side, looking at Marni. She's not looking at him, not now, but her eyes are open.

"It's going to be alright," he murmurs, reaching for the butcher's knife, dragging his thumb through the pool of cheer. Maybe he can put it back in.

"That's a noisy brat you have, Wallace."

And he doesn't really hear Rotti. It's just a nightmare, right? He turns his head back, blinking. It seems brighter when he looks up. Too bright for a dream. Rotti's sneering. Nathan half-covers his eyes with his hand, trying to keep the light out of his face. "What?"

"Your little mongrel. Shilo."

Something jabs Nathan, something in his head. Shilo. He repeats the name, and Rotti nods. Then the older man smirks, dangles a pen in front of Nathan's face.

"Come on, Nathan."

"Rotti," and he grabs at the man's wrist. The pen stops dangling. "Where's Shilo?"

Unperturbed, Rotti smirks his little smirk, undoing the handcuffs with his other hand. Nathan tries to hold on, but Rotti pulls his wrist free, too easily. "Don't you worry about her." He waves the pen in front of Nathan's face again. It takes Nathan two tries to grab it. Then he drags himself to unsteady feet.

Rotti reaches out, and he flinches, but doesn't move. Rotti's not a gentle person, not a nice person, but he uses a handkerchief to wipe Nathan's forehead. Then he nods at the desk. The contract's still sitting there. Nathan stumbles forward, and he can almost hear Rotti's smile.

"Good boy."

**& & &**

**& & &**


	3. Cyanide for Gumdrops

**III. CYANIDE FOR GUMDROPS**

**RATING **M

(How can anything with Luigi not be?)

(I like how my last piece with Luigi turned out, and I like Luigi, so I've been looking do write something with him in it for a while. last night I got a jolt of insipiration [read: coffee]; this is the result ^^)

"I'm so happy I could kill you right now."

Luigi gets angry at (in no particular order) Rotti, Mag, Nathan, Pavi, a gentern, Amber, a Zydrate junkie, Pavi, his dead mother, the weather, his childhood aspirations, deadMarni, his knife, Pavi, and a dead Zydrate junkie.

**& & &**

It's raining outside, so everybody's stuck inside. It's hot. Luigi's tried to turn on the air conditioning, but he only ended up breaking it. Pavi had laughed. Pavi was now getting his face put back on.

At least Amber's keeping to herself. Some days she can be a pain, others not so much. This way he doesn't have to find out what today is.

The problem's that with his siblings occupied, nobody else is around.

Luigi isn't alone very often. In fact, Luigi is never alone. Right now, as he fidgets on the chair, he knows he has his knives. One hidden inside his vest, one small blade tucked in his boot. You're never alone with those types of friends.

That doesn't stop him from feeling lonely. Normally for Luigi it's not about feeling. Love, hate, fuck that. Luigi sees, Luigi does. It had got him through the past two decades, hadn't it?

Maybe that's it. He's twenty years old, and he already has everything he wants, has ever wanted. Cars, check. Sex, check. A butterfly knife, check. A little sister (he'll never let her know), check. What was it people used to say? Money can't buy happiness?

But Luigi's as happy as a pig in shit. Couldn't be happier. No, that's not the problem.

Standing up, he looks out the window. The GeneCo building has the best view in the city. Like sitting on the moon and looking down. The city sprawls every way, sprawls right into the sea.

When he was five, before Pavi and before Amber, Rotti had taken him down to the gritty tar-laden beaches to watch them tear down the bridges. Luigi had found a broken bone shaped like a knife, and played with it all day. Told Rotti he wanted to join a circus and throw knives. Funny how the little things stay with you.

The door behind him slides open. Quiet, but he's always had good hearing. Turning around, he sees Pavi stop and stare. Luigi's holding a knife in his hand, and he glances down at it, then at Pavi, and puts it away.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"They put-a my face back on-a," he says, doing some sort of showy hand-wave thing under his chin, like his face was some sort of game-show prize. Luigi's lip pulls back of its own accord, and he turns back to look out the window. Pavi won't be ignored, though.

"Papa said-a you have to watch-a me."

Luigi presses a hand against the glass. It's thick. Throwing Pavi at it won't make it break. Little fag's a lightweight.

"Pavi," he begins after a second, "do you think I give a shit?"

He can hear his brother walking over to the corner of the room. There's a mirror there, and Luigi's sure that Pavi will start striking poses any minute. At least he's not tattling to Rotti.

Leave it to their father to ruin Luigi's perfectly fun, happy, afternoon.

No, wait, that was wrong. He is having a shitty afternoon, and it has just been made twice as worse. At least Pavi has a physical presence (lightweight or otherwise), which is better than having to deal with things like loneliness. Can't stab loneliness.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees Pavi pretending he's Marilyn Monroe. Trying to press down an imaginary skirt. Or maybe he's just groping himself.

Can't rip its fake face off.

Yeah, this was better. Or maybe the heat was getting to him. He brushes a hand over his forehead.

"A-Luigi?"

Luigi grunts. Pavi seems to think he's interested in hearing what he has to say.

"Where is-a our be-loved sister?"

"Why the fuck you want to know, dipshit?" Luigi snaps, turning all the way around. Pavi glances over at him, looking skeptical. Or maybe it's just the mask. Pavi takes a step forward, and no, he's definitely got an eyebrow raised.

"Don't look at me like that," mutters Luigi, pulling the knife out again. The younger Largo pads over to what had previously been Luigi's chair. Pavi, still quiet, straddles one of the chair's padded arms.

Great, now he'd have to fucking burn it.

That had its benefits, though. Fire was fun. Glancing out the window, Luigi can dimly see the glow of the GeneCo power plant. Not even the rain could stop that fucker from blazing.

"I want to-a show her my doll." Pavi reaches into his sweater (Luigi's pretty sure he's not wearing anything underneath) and pulls out what might have once been an action figure.

Might have, until Pavi had pulled a red ribbon over its head. Pulled a Barbie ballerina skirt onto its one remaining leg. Taped its arms to its side.

"Pavi," Luigi is actually a little shocked. "What the hell are you doing with that?"

"He is-a Penny."

Luigi blinks. Pavi had given the thing a name. Luigi didn't even name his knives.

"Kid, you're thirteen."

Then, after a moment's thought, "Why the fuck would Amber want to look at that?"

Pavi shoots him a look that makes Luigi want to pull his face off again. _Let's see you gape now_.

Pavi rolls his eyes. Luigi has obviously missed something.

"What?"

"The-a wedding."

Luigi's still staring at Pavi. Where had the kid gone wrong? Sure, Rotti wasn't number one dad, but he wasn't that screwed up. Was he?

No, of course he wasn't. Him and Amber turned out alright. So far, at least. Pavi was just a throwback.

And right now, Pavi's waving his arms around like a fucking monkey. Luigi smirks, and then Pavi starts to hum that old wedding song. It takes Luigi a second to realize Pavi's hand-waving—he's imitating his doll walking down the aisle.

"Penny and-a Otis are getting-a married."

Luigi remembers Otis. He'd ripped off one of the rabbit's ears, both of its arms, and stabbed it various times in his childhood. He'd given it to Amber—or, rather, Amber had found it and kept it—when she was five. Luigi feels a little betrayed, but only for a minute. He shakes his head and looks back out the window.

"Fuck that. She's in her room. Now piss off."

**& & &**

It stops raining in the afternoon, but it's still dark. Luigi's still supposed to be watching Pavi, but he really feels like killing somebody. And if he kills Pavi, Rotti won't be happy. Neither will Amber. Two things Luigi can't let happen.

This is how he ends up in the alley between some buildings and the Sanitarian Square fence. It's half a year to the Genetic Opera, and right now there's only scum and rodents scurrying down the dimly lit narrows. The first junkie he finds is dead, but they're a dime a dozen: there's another just inside a doorway down the street. He's pulling out the knife from his boot, his throwing knife. Luigi starts to aim it when he gets a chill up his spine.

Besides Rotti, nobody can do that. So Luigi's confused and angry when he turns around to see not Rotti, but his little pet death-doctor. Not suited up, but he's got a carrying case in his hand. Luigi smiles at Nathan, sliding the knife up his sleeve.

"Hey!" he exclaims after a moment of silence. The man's creeping him out, so Luigi does his best to return the favour. His first thought, it's 'What would Pavi do?'

The resulting thought, it makes Luigi want to hurl.

Luigi nods his head at the carrying case. "Whatcha got?"

Nathan slowly looks down at the case, and then blinks. "GeneCo property," he replies after a minute.

Stepping forward, Luigi pats him on the shoulder, smiling widely. "Attaboy, Nate!" Nathan manages to look horrified and disgusted, even though his face barely moves. Luigi snorts a little. Score one for Largo. He steps past the doctor and gives him a hearty slap on the back. Nathan half-stumbles forward, but doesn't move after that.

"Dad says you're the best, you know." Nathan doesn't look at him.

That pisses Luigi off.

"He says you cut up that bitch Marni like a fish." Rotti hadn't said that, but Luigi can imagine him saying it. Nathan still doesn't say anything, but at least he's looking at Luigi now. And it's not a happy look. Luigi recognizes that look, and his smile fades a little.

"Rotti's probably waiting," prompts Luigi after a minute, losing confidence. Fucking Nathan with his goddamn crazy look. He nods at the carrying case again. Nathan's still staring at him. Glaring.

Right now, Luigi wonders if it would be too late to join Amber and Pavi and Otis and Penny.

"I know."

Luigi's not smiling at all now. Nathan—he's smiling a bit. Luigi takes a slow step back, nodding slowly. "Good," he murmurs. Nathan takes a half-step, so he's facing Luigi now.

Lower, under his breath, Luigi whispers, "Fucking lunatic." That—Rotti _had_ said that. Then Luigi turns around and strides out of the alley. Strides because he knows if he runs, the animal will give chase.

**& & &**

"You missed the wedding."

"I know, Amb."

"Amb_er_!" She says, a lot louder than she has to.

"Amb_er_," he retorts, drawing out the second syllable for a good five seconds. She crosses her arms. She doesn't say anything for a long minute, and Luigi starts to get annoyed. "What?"

"Are you sorry?"

"What the—" and he just catches himself. He can swallow a bit of pride for Amber. "Yeah, I'm sorry I missed your rabbit's wedding." She brightens up a little, and uncrosses her arms. Always happy to get her way. True Largo right there. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

On the wall, the clock is ticking. He glances up at it. Rotti would probably be back soon.

"You should go to bed."

"But Pavi's still up."

"Pavi's—" Damn, she had a point there. Luigi pauses. "Pavi and me need to have a talk."

Amber nods. "Okay," and she disappears around a corner. Luigi waits a few minutes, and then follows, only he keeps on walking down the hallway once he turns. Heads up to Rotti's office. All the way up. In the elevator, he pulls out the slim throwing knife again. Maybe he could name it.

When the door opens, he flings the blade at Rotti's door. It sinks into the wood with a satisfying sound, and he laughs.

Mag's standing off to the side of the elevator, staring at the knife. When he steps out, she turns her eyes to him. He glances at her before going to retrieve the knife. Only it doesn't come out. He tugs at it again.

"Fuck!" Rotti doesn't like other people's stuff in his things.

After a minute, Luigi stops trying to get his knife. He turns around. Mag's staring at him. What the fuck was up with Rotti's pets and their staring? Nathan had been bad enough, but Mag's got those unblinking mechanical eyes…

He opens his mouth to yell at her, but she suddenly looks away and he can't. He turns back to the door. "He'll be here soon," he says, turning the knob and opening the door. Mag doesn't respond, so he closes the door. Leaves the knife there.

Inside the office, Luigi immediately skips over to the desk. When he was a kid, Rotti had let him sit in the big swivel chair a few times. Luigi still liked the chair, but Rotti didn't let him touch it. When he sits down in it, he spins it around once. Twice for good measure.

There's a knock at the door, and suddenly he's leaning against the desk, straightening his ascot. He looks up as the door opens.

"Fuck, Pavi—" he's about to say 'knock first', but Pavi had knocked. "Fuck." Pavi glances at the chair, then at Luigi, a smile spreading across his face, the skin-mask dimpling a little. Luigi glances nervously at the chair. It's still spinning a little.

Pavi starts to laugh. Luigi feels the hair on his neck raise at the sound.

"You sound like a monkey screwing a rusty gate, Pavi."

"Your-a mother sound-a like a monkey."

Luigi feels like he should say something. For all he knows, though, she had sounded like a monkey. But he didn't know because she had gone off and killed herself when he was one or two. Killed herself or something like it. He didn't really care, still doesn't. She was probably a bitch.

"So?"

The indifference seems to surprise Pavi. His mouth's open, but nothing's coming out.

If only every day was like that.

But then Pavi ruins it, "A-shit, you're-a cold, brother."

"Don't you fucking swear, Pavi." His little brother snorts, and walks over to the couch in the room. He lifts one leg over the couch arm, and Luigi glares at him until he rolls his eyes and flops down on the couch.

"Or what?"

"Huh?"

"You always-a swear."

"That's different."

Pavi knows better than to keep poking. He looks away from Luigi, turns his eyes up to the ceiling.

"I wonder why-a there are no windows-a here."

Luigi looks around. He's been in the office a hundred, a thousand times, but had never really thought about it. There were barely any lights, no windows, no pictures.

And Pavi had called him cold.

Luigi doesn't say anything. A few minutes pass—but there's no clock in here either so he's not sure just how many—before the door opens again. He looks up, and Pavi pops his head over the edge of the couch.

At the door, the Gentern pauses. Only for a second, though. She walks over, placing a small glass of water and a little paper cup on the desk beside Luigi. He watches her closely, curious. There's a couple of pills in the paper cup. Looking up, he sees her standing by the couch. Pavi's leering at her, but she's looking straight ahead.

"What?"

He can't see her eyes, but she makes a tiny sound that makes him think she's surprised. She doesn't move, though.

When he pulls the knife out of his vest, Luigi's pretty sure she flinches. Pavi whispers something. She rushes off.

Seconds later, Pavi follows.

He's been cheated, again. He jerks his hand down, impaling the desk on the blade before twisting it out angrily. The pills in the cup rattle a little. Luigi stabs the desk again, and leaves the blade quivering in the wood. Why would Dad be taking pills?

It's easier not to think about it, not to worry, so Luigi concentrates on using the knife to drill a hole in the table. He has to stop when he hits the metal skeleton, and that's when he gets up and leaves.

**& & &**

Walking back towards the alleyway, he pulls out a cigarette. He sticks it in his mouth rather awkwardly. Luigi doesn't smoke, never has, but likes the feeling of it. Pavi had once said something about oral, and obsession or fixation, and now Luigi only took out the cigarette in private. And here, on the street, was about as private as he could get.

He fishes around in his coat pocket for a lighter while he walks. He finds a matchbook, with two matches left. He doesn't light the cigarette, but he keeps the matchbook in hand as he turns into the alley.

Dead bodies are nothing new to Luigi, but this still manages to surprise him.

He knows that when the body dies, a lot of fluids are released. Piss, vomit, shit. Messy stuff.

He's seen that before.

This, he hasn't seen before. The organs—they stayed in the body. Normally.

Luigi stands there for a good five minutes, the cigarette clinging to his dry lips. He's thinking back to his afternoon, back to the creepy fucking staring contest. He'd lost.

This—whoever this mess used to be—might have paid the price.

Luigi stands there for a good five minutes before he strikes a match and sets the body on fire. It starts to stink after a few minutes, and he stays as long as he can stand it.

**& & &**

**& & &**


	4. Guilty Pleasures

**IV. GUILTY PLEASURES**

**RATING **T

**CHARACTERS **Nathan, Mag

**CATEGORY** More hurt/comfort stuff, some (angsty) Magthan as requested ^^

Here is proof that patience will out. How long has it been since I updated?

Also, this is short. Very short.

"Are you sad?  
Are you holding yourself?  
Are you locked in your room?  
You shouldn't be."

_Are you sad?_ By Our Lady peace

**& & &**

She knows all too well why she's looking for him. But like always, she gives herself other reasons. Plausible ones so she doesn't feel guilty. She tells herself he's a friend. Tells herself he needs somebody to be strong. And it's funny, because she always thought he was the strong one.

Mag had considered going to the house, but it seemed wrong, on some scale, in some way, to go to his home. The same way meeting in the graveyard seemed right. Neutral ground. All three of them here. Not like they used to be, of course, but they _were_ still there.

Only standing there, she isn't so sure if she can convince herself of that. Nathan's not here, and even if he does appear she's not sure how much of him will actually be there. Something had died with Marni—something besides Shilo.

The tomb door looks so innocuous. Inadequate, for all that's buried back there.

She's already placed her flowers there, and they look too bright and alive, even with their faintly wrinkled red blossoms, against the heavy, dark door. Every day, for two months now, it's been two flowers. They're never there the next day. Once, she'd idly let herself wonder if maybe Nathan had taken them. Stupid dreams she'd had when she was tired and not thinking straight. (Which is more often than she'd like to admit.)

Nathan does arrive. For once, she doesn't have to hurry away any time soon, so she decides not to say anything. Screw the script. If he wants to talk, he will. Maybe that's why he waits so late to visit the tomb: she always ends up talking to him. Or rather, saying something. They don't really talk. Nothing to talk about. Marni was, after all, the only thing that had really connected them, right? That link, it had died with her too.

He seems to think that, at least. She lets herself believe it. And dead things, even in this day and age, they stayed dead.

As they observe the silence, she takes occasional breaks to observe him. Long dark coat, short brown hair. Wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. Nathan still looks like Nathan, but he looks tired. Cold. Thin. Handsome.

"Mag?" His voice sounds small, and lost, and it's more like a statement than a question. He's not looking at her, but she still feels like she's been caught, so she looks away. Only for a moment, though. Nathan's eyes are closed tightly, and she thinks maybe he's crying, but he's quiet. And his hands are clenched.

Before she can tell herself not to, Mag steps towards him. A big gap that takes courage to cross, but she does it anyways because she has to be the strong one here.

He opens his hand a little as she touches it, and Mag takes the opportunity to bring it up, wrap it in her own hands.

Nathan glances at their hands, and then slowly looks up at her. An incomprehensible look on his tired face. Not so tired, actually, now that she can see it up close. Just… darker. He's only four years older than her, but he looks two, three times that right now. For a heartbeat, Mag wonders how she looks. You get so used to being up on the stage, with the spotlight shining in your eyes, you forget what it's like to do this. She feels almost shy.

But he doesn't judge her. Never has. Just looks at her, sad and lonely. Maybe the connection's not completely dead and maybe—Mag stops there, reminding herself that they are just foolish dreams. Guilty pleasures.

And they've fallen quiet again. This—him speaking, them touching—isn't part of their routine.

Routines change, right?

(Damnit, even people could change.)

"I'm here," she murmurs. One of them had to be. Nathan doesn't say anything, but she can feel a faint tremor run though him, and he clutches her hand a bit tighter. He's facing her but looking at the mausoleum. She thinks she catches a bittersweet smile, but in the shadows she can't be certain.

"You brought flowers."

And the way he says it makes her want to smile. Cry, too, sure, but mostly smile. But she doesn't.

"I did." She pulls in a small breath, can't help but notice the warm smell of him, and the smell of death and dirt. Death and him. Mag frowns, and chances a glance at her hands, his hand.

" I did, I always will."

It's true, what she says. She will.

Nathan turns to look at her.

Maybe it's a trick of the light, maybe it's her own imagination. Maybe it's real. But there' a flicker of hope there, in his eyes. It's so unfamiliar it strikes Mag, the songbird, mute. She matches his gaze, but for a minute (no more no less) she isn't there, not really.

In another world, she would smile. She would smile at him. Fake bravery (pretend to be the strong one) and lean forward an whisper something witty, or insightful. Maybe 'this is where we kiss' like in the old films. He might take a moment, consider her words, whatever they are, and lean forward in agreement.

In this world, she only smiles. He leans forward and—wait. She's forgotten her line. Mag watches with almost feline curiosity as he closes in, his forehead bumping slightly against her shoulder.

Maybe she could still fake the bravery.

_Don't worry._

_They're in a better place._

_I love you._

Things he doesn't want to hear.

Maybe, Mag thinks, silence is the bravest thing here.

(Marni, Mag thinks. Marni was always the brave one.)

**& & &**

**& & &**


End file.
